


One Little Dream

by hilaryfaye



Category: Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-21
Updated: 2013-01-21
Packaged: 2017-11-26 08:01:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/648354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hilaryfaye/pseuds/hilaryfaye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sandman hadn’t meant to come here. He had only been following the trail of the nightmares, to make sure Pitch wasn’t trying to sneak back in, so quickly after what had happened last time. Now he stood in Pitch’s lair, staring in a mixture of awe and horror at the nightmares that tormented Pitch. He had never in all his life seen anything like this, so overwhelming and all-consuming.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Little Dream

Never was there a swirl of nightmares quite so intimidating and all-consuming as the ones that surrounded the sleeping Nightmare King--if in fact Pitch could be said to be sleeping, with the way he thrashed, and cried out in his sleep.

Sandman hadn’t meant to come here. He had only been following the trail of the nightmares, to make sure Pitch wasn’t trying to sneak back in, so quickly after what had happened last time. It had only been a few months since that battle in Burgess, when they came so close to losing everything. Now he stood in Pitch’s lair, staring in a mixture of awe and horror at the nightmares that tormented Pitch. He had never in all his life seen anything like this, so overwhelming and all-consuming.

  
Perhaps it was not so strange that the king of nightmares should suffer the worst of them, but that didn’t make it less painful to watch. No one deserved to suffer like that.

  
Sandman crept forward, watching the nightmares intensify as he approached. They knew him, and like any creature they didn’t want to die. Sandman frowned at them, and seized the nearest one, injecting it with gold. The nightmare whinnied and protested, and changed into a golden warhorse, proud. Sandman grasped the next, it became a swarm of butterflies. The next a series of shooting stars. Sandman realized slowly these were familiar to some part of Pitch, but he didn’t know what.

  
Slowly, the last of the nightmares faded away, and Pitch stilled, into real, restful sleep. Sandman watched the dream for a moment, smiling in satisfaction. The other guardians might have questioned why he did it, but Sandy couldn’t stand to watch anyone suffer nightmares.

  
Not even the man who’d tried to destroy him.

  
He frowned as fear began to spread through the dreams again, blackening them. Pitch squirmed, trying to cover his head with his arms. “No, not her,” he whispered. “Let her go.”

  
Sandy swatted at the nightmares, driving them away until the dream was clear again. The little guardian sat, pulling Pitch’s head into his lap and beginning to stroke the Boogeyman’s black hair, though he didn’t quite know why. It only seemed like the right thing to do.

  
Bunny said Sandy had too big a heart, and that’s what got him into trouble. Perhaps, but Sandy understood what it was to be lonely. The others didn’t notice so much, because Sandy had so much love and affection to give, but no one ever saw what Sandy did, except for the other guardians. His work was lonely work--as was Pitch’s. No one ever listened to either of them.

  
Pitch’s expression seemed almost serene as he slept, using Sandman’s lap for a pillow. He wasn’t so fearsome when he wasn’t tormented by fear and hate.

  
Sandman was curious about the girl Pitch had been dreaming of--not her, let her go. He wondered who she was, if Pitch even knew.

  
Sandy ran a small hand over Pitch’s cheek. Somehow he hadn’t expected Pitch’s face to be so soft.

  
Pitch stirred a moment, and then woke with a start, sending Sandy tumbling off the cold slab (a poor excuse for a bed if Sandy had ever seen one) as he jerked upright. Pitch stared at Sandy as the little Guardian righted himself, brushing his clothes off. He couldn’t think of anything to say--what did one say when one found their enemy not only in their home, but stroking their hair while they slept? It wasn’t an event one usually prepared for.

  
“What the hell are you doing here?” was all he managed to get out.

  
Sandman didn’t really have a good answer, so he didn’t offer one. Pitch stood, looking around. “And I suppose your friends are tagging along somewhere, hiding out to make a mockery of me. Is that what you want? One final humiliation for the Boogeyman?”

  
Sandy shook his head furiously, stomping his foot. No, that wasn’t what he wanted at all--he hated being misunderstood. He tried to explain in sand that he’d followed the nightmares, and he hadn’t been able to watch Pitch suffer. Of all people, Pitch understood the sand the best. He looked at Sandy in disbelief, backing away. Pitch wouldn’t accept that Sandy--anyone--would do something kind for him. Certainly not without ulterior motive.

  
Sandy assured Pitch he was alone. Pitch looked around, still wary.

  
“Then leave,” he sneered, “You’ve done your good deed for the day.”

  
Sandman stayed put, studying Pitch. He tried to ask about the girl.

  
“What girl?” Pitch asked, eyeing him. “There’s no girl.”

  
_You dreamed about her._

  
Pitch balled his hands into fists. “Spying on even my dreams? Is there anything you can leave alone?” He stalked away and Sandy followed him on a cloud of dream sand. He should have left, he still had work to do, but something told him not to leave Pitch just yet.

  
“What is it you’re trying to do, Little Man?” Pitch asked. “I’m not your charity project.”

  
Sandy hesitated, and reached out to touch Pitch’s cheek again. Pitch stayed absolutely still as Sandy caressed his cheek, a reassuring smile on his little face. Pitch turned away without speaking.

  
There were a thousand things Pitch could have done, even beaten and weakened as he was, but Sandy hadn’t expected him to just turn his back. That wasn’t how Pitch operated... was it?

  
Hesitantly, Sandy drew his hand back, not sure what to do. Pitch left him there in the cavern, disappearing to somewhere unknown. Deciding he was unwanted, Sandy returned to the surface to resume his duties.

  
Though he worked all throughout the rest of the night, Sandy couldn’t get Pitch quite off his mind. What did those dreams mean? They were nothing Sandy knew about--butterflies and stars and a warhorse. They seemed very old, half-remembered--especially so if Pitch claimed to know nothing about them.

 

 

Pitch felt that feathery touch for the next three days. He wasn’t sure what to think of it, remembering that little caress. Such a simple touch, and yet it confused him more than anything Sandman had ever done. It was easier to be enemies than... whatever had happened.

He kept his nightmares at a distance these days, wary of trusting them again after how they had turned on him the last time. Yet whenever he fell asleep--and he did his best not to--they came roaring back to overwhelm him. That dream Sandy had given him, however brief, had been the only good dream Pitch had had in... since long before he could remember.

He couldn’t remember most of it. He remembered butterflies, and a little girl’s laughter, but he didn’t know why. Why would he remember the butterflies most clearly? It was such an idiotic thing to remember.

There was a thunderstorm one night. Pitch wasn’t sure why he climbed out of the darkness to stand in the rain, to glory in the overpowering noise, and shrink away from the whips of light. He felt something akin to fear, but not fear. An exhilaration of feeling the power of a storm, a storm that sounded like battle. He tilted his face towards the heavens and let his laughter out, feeling like something in him was breaking away.

He liked storms; felt close to them even though he didn’t know why.

There was no moon to watch him tonight--the clouds had done away with any fear of that. Dozens of children were no doubt wide awake, shivering in their parents’ beds, wishing away the thunder.

They had no need of him tonight. The storm was the source of their fear.

A flash of gold caught his eye, and Pitch peered through the rain at its source. Sandy floated through the wind and the rain, still delivering his good dreams. Pitch watched him, the echo of that touch on his cheek again.

He didn’t understand it, his sudden fascination with Sandman. He didn’t understand why he still felt that blasted touch, or why it mattered so much. He didn’t want it to matter.

To admit it mattered meant admitting he cared, and to admit he cared was to admit weakness.

“I am not weak,” he hissed, his voice lost in the wind.

 

 

Sandman saw Pitch there in the rain, watching him. Pitch did nothing--he sent no nightmares, shouted no taunts. He only watched.

Sandy went about his work, wondering if he should acknowledge Pitch. He paused a moment, and sent a golden butterfly fluttering down to where the Nightmare King stood. Pitch watched it a moment--Sandman half expected him to crush it in a fit of rage. It would have upset him, though it wouldn’t have shocked him.

Instead, Pitch did the most surprising thing. He extended a slow hand to the butterfly, and sheltered it in his hands, keeping the rain from beating its wings.

When Sandy next looked down from the dreams, Pitch was gone.

 

 

Pitch took the little dream butterfly down to his lair. It was drier there, and the only place where he had full command over his nightmares when he was awake. So long as he was awake, the nightmares couldn’t harm the little dream.

Pitch watched it flutter for a while, while he sat cradled in the empty hollow of the globe. He couldn’t explain why he was so careful of it, or why it made him smile.

The butterfly landed on his chest, opening and closing its wings as it rested. Pitch was watching it so intently he didn’t hear his visitor arrive.

Sandy smiled to himself, seeing one little dream so captivate Pitch’s attention. Fear didn’t have to be a terrible thing--he had spent enough time wrapped up in Pitch’s nightmares to know that. Sometimes, fear had it’s place. It kept a person from thrusting their hand into a fire or walking too close to a cliffside, reminded them to lock their doors at night and not stray too far from safety.

Pitch let the butterfly rest there over his heart. Perhaps he and Sandy were not so different in what they did. Nightmares made people more appreciative of their good dreams.

Good dreams made their nightmares memorable.

Dreams and nightmares could strike a balance, he was sure of it.

Perhaps balance was what he needed.

The light seemed a little brighter in the cavern, and Pitch looked up. A swarm of thousands of golden butterflies fluttered through the air, their wings beating the air without a sound. He stood, the one butterfly taking off to join the others. After a moment, Pitch turned to look at Sandy, who had stepped out into the open and was smiling contently at his butterflies.

“Why?” Pitch asked.

Sandy conjured up an image of the girl from Pitch’s dream, thinking it would help. Pitch scowled. “Again with the girl--I don’t know of any girl!” he swiped his hand through the image, and it disintegrated in Sandy’s palm. Sandy frowned at him.

“And what did you expect?” Pitch sneered. “That butterflies would cure me of the darkness? I am what I am, Little Man, and no amount of good dreams will change that.”

_If you hate them so much_ , Sandy asked, _why don’t you send your nightmares after them?_

Pitch’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t play games with me,” he hissed. “What are you plotting?”

Sandy shrugged and didn’t answer.

Pitch’s lip curled, and he looked up at the butterflies. They had alighted around the cavern, and were spreading their warm glow. He raised a hand to summon the nightmares, to destroy them...

...but he couldn’t.

Slowly he lowered his hand, and sighed. “Leave me alone, Little Man. This isn’t the place for you.” Pitch sank slowly to the floor next to the globe. He felt tired, and old.

Sandy stood next to him, patting his shoulder. He waited until Pitch looked at him, and tried to explain that he didn’t really know why he was there. He just didn’t think Pitch deserved to suffer those nightmares.

“They come with who I am,” Pitch answered coldly, “I am fear, it’s only fitting I understand just what it is I dole out.”

_But not to be consumed by it._

Pitch decided to look anywhere but at Sandy. His eyes settled on the butterflies, still flying through his cavern. Sandy sat next to Pitch. For a great long while, neither of them made any effort to communicate with the other.

“Won’t your friends be wondering where you are?” Pitch asked. He was trying to sound contemptuous, but it was only half-hearted.

Sandy shrugged. The Guardians knew he could take care of himself.

Another several-minute-long silence. Pitch stood, drawing away from Sandy. “Dawn is coming. The nightmares will be coming home to roost. It would be wise for you to take these now if you wish to protect them.” He gestured the butterflies.

Sandman watched them quietly for a moment, and one by one the butterflies flew away, back towards the surface... all except one. The last fluttered down to where Pitch stood, and nestled again over his heart. Pitch stared at it for several moments, in no hurry to shoo it away.

Sandman touched Pitch’s arm. _I could keep them away for a night._

Pitch was tempted. He would have loved nothing better than a night free of his own demons, sleeping peacefully, with only good dreams. He would have loved a night where he was not alone, a night where his own fears didn’t come to devour him.

He shook his head. “You have things to attend to. And the others...”

Sandman shushed him. He did not need to be out there to send his good dreams to others. He had been doing it long enough that he knew a few tricks Pitch had yet to guess. And as for the other Guardians--well what of them? Sandy was older than them, and he knew what he was doing. Let them wonder for a night where he’d gone. He didn’t need to report to them.

Pitch cradled the butterfly in his long fingers. It opened and closed its wings, resting on his palm. Something in him ached, looking at that delicate little creature. He felt like he should remember something, but he didn’t know what.

He looked down at Sandman, handing him the butterfly. “If you wish.” It was as close to “please do” as Sandy ever expected to hear from Pitch.

Pitch looked exhausted. Mostly the Guardians didn’t need much sleep--but they were stronger because of belief. Pitch had taken quite a blow, that day in Burgess, and the effects were obvious.

Pitch stretched out on his bed, and Sandy made for himself some thick pillows. He didn’t intend to suffer the soreness of spending hours on a slab. Pitch rubbed at his face, already nodding off without the help of dream sand.

Sandy sat guard that night, letting the good dreams do their work and keeping the infuriated nightmares at bay, with Pitch’s head resting in his lap. He stroked Pitch’s hair again, feeling rather fond of the Nightmare King as he slept.

Pitch clutched at him the way a child clutches at their teddy bear, his face pressed against Sandman’s stomach. Sandy closed his eyes, feeling rather peaceful.

Perhaps, he thought, all that Pitch really needed was a reason to dream good things.


End file.
